


Achromatic

by endofnight



Series: Gravity of Tempered Grace [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I'm Sorry, M/M, sad i mean it, this entire series is sad, this is sad too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofnight/pseuds/endofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a sad sigh and a heavy heart, Enjolras turned from the bed—<i>where he saw Grantaire, would always see Grantaire, with his hair over his brow and that come-hither smile</i>—and faced his wardrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Achromatic

Enjolras stared at their— _his_ —unmade bed. Éponine had changed the sheets not long after the coroner had taken Grantaire's body.

Not Grantaire, because Grantaire was gone long before the coroner arrived. What made him Grantaire was gone.

If he was honest with himself, Grantaire had been gone for far, far longer.

It was easy to remember the temperamental, mercurial man who had become his lover over the last few years, as his addiction and denial both took deep poisonous root in him. Harder to remember the man Enjolras had fallen in love with.

His wit had turned sour and bitter, and, accompanied by an increasingly sharper tongue, was used for pain rather than humor. As his denial—and addictions—grew by leaps and bounds, so did his judgments of others' predilections.

Still. Sometimes, usually when they were alone, Enjolras could see that young man in there. He would give Enjolras a pained look or let out a heavy sigh.

As if he were a captive begging for release from his kidnapper.

Enjolras felt guilt—but then, he didn't. He knew he had done everything he could to get help for Grantaire. He'd encouraged and cajoled Grantaire into rehab programs, time after time, eventually having to resort to forcing him in. That worked, once or twice. Then Grantaire would leave, for weeks at a time, before coming back to him, resolutely sober once more.

But it never lasted long.

With a sad sigh and a heavy heart, Enjolras turned from the bed— _where he saw Grantaire, would always see Grantaire, with his hair over his brow and that come-hither smile_ —and faced his wardrobe.

The day he had most feared was here. The day he would have to wear his emotions on his sleeve for everyone else to see because they were so huge, so all-encompassing, that they didn't fit anywhere else.

Black, navy, gray. If he were a melodramatic man, if he were a poet like Jehan, he would remark on how the choices in the color of his suit matched the color in his life with Grantaire gone.

But he wasn't.

He compromised and pulled out the gray suit, laying it on the bed almost reverently. He did his ablutions, taking care when shaving his face and doing his hair. It was long enough to curl again, at Grantaire's request. He thought maybe he'd keep it longer for awhile. Or he thought maybe he'd cut it short once more.

He dressed, going through the motions. The same motions he'd been going through since Tuesday. In the deepest part of his mind, in the darkest part of night, as he laid awake wondering _what now?_ , he knew he was afraid to change his motions, his actions, his very thoughts, because if…when…he did, he wouldn't be numb anymore. He would be forced to feel and endure the pain of the wound Grantaire had left in him. The open, raw, throbbing wound where his heart had been.

Opening Grantaire's closet door with a sharply released breath, he closed his eyes as the scent overtook him. It drifted over him, enveloped him.

Hugged him.

Clove cigarettes, and the occasional cologne Grantaire wore when he remembered, and the cinnamon candies he ate.

It was completely, totally overwhelming, and it took all of Enjolras's strength to keep his shocked knees from buckling.

He steeled himself and let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He reached with trembling hands toward the hanger where Grantaire kept his few neckties. He pulled out Grantaire's favorite, a particularly garish, purple and green monstrosity and looped it on, doing the knot with deft fingers.

More motions—more shutting of the doors in his mind—Grantaire had often tied his ties for him. He liked the intimacy of it, the excuse to put his hands on Enjolras, the idea of doing something for his lover.

Enjolras liked to indulge him.

He tightened the knot and looked in the mirror. The green in the tie clashed horribly with his blond hair; the purple only heightened the pallor he had developed in the days following Grantaire's death.

He didn't care.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The service was scheduled to start at 11; his— _their_ —friends would likely show up about 20 minutes before that.

If he hurried, he could be alone with Grantaire again. He hadn't been, not since Combeferre had discovered them in bed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had gone with him to make the arrangements; Enjolras had been surprised to discover that Grantaire had given a will to Courfeyrac to hold.

_How many secrets would he never discover now?_

The trip on the Metro was unremarkable and less than memorable. He felt as if he were swaddled in cotton. The world was drab and subdued beyond the edge of his emotions.

He saw Grantaire everywhere.

He began to suspect he always would.

The old wooden door to the chapel was heavy; or he was weak. The inner sanctum was hushed, warm and quiet. A few old women sat in the pew closet to the back, scarved heads bowed over rosaries. Praying for a young man they didn't know.

At first glance, it was easy to tell the funeral director had yet to arrive, though Grantaire was here. His casket, a shining, plain wood thing Enjolras had insisted on, was set up on a dais in front of the altar, a spill of FLOWER over the closed half, dripping down to the floor like tears.

Enjolras set his bag on the front pew and simply _looked_ at the casket. From his vantage point, he could see the shock of black curls; the strong nose; the large, folded hands on an immobile chest. If he squinted, he could almost pretend Grantaire was asleep on their couch, his breath deep and slow.

Enjolras made his way over, stepped up, finally seeing Grantaire in full glory.

He looked happy. _Finally_.

The tears he'd been holding back all morning came unbidden and he didn't stop them. He placed one hand over Grantaire's folded hands— _too cold—_ and just stared at his face.

Grantaire was at peace. Whatever internal demons he had fought his entire life had finally left him. Enjolras could be happy about that. Enjolras couldn't begrudge him that.

He leaned down and kissed Grantaire's lips lightly for the last time. A sob escaped, unbidden, as he straightened and he smoothed the lapel of Grantaire's jacket.

"I love you," he whispered. "I have always loved you. I will always love you." He glanced up at the ceiling, trying to will the tears back into his burning eyes. He gave an ugly sniff and looked back down at Grantaire's face. "You stupid man, I will always love you. I never told you enough. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He paused, taking a shaking breath, similarly shaking hands gliding over Grantaire's hands, his arm, to the satiny wood finish of the casket.

"I hope you can forgive me. I should've told you more. I should've tried harder…" Enjolras trailed off. He could almost hear Grantaire's voice, gravelly from sleep and cigarettes, admonishing him for apologizing. Grantaire was also so quick to take blame upon himself. That was probably his fault, too.

He looked at Grantaire's face. He would give anything, _anything_ , for Grantaire to open his eyes. For that sardonic twist of his lips to quirk up into a grin, for those blue eyes to crinkle with laughter.

_He would never see Grantaire smile again. He would never hear that bark of laughter again, laughter that always seemed to come as a surprise to the somber man._

Enjolras, who already carried the weight of the world on the shoulders, was flattened by his impossible burden.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> For reference, the song that caused this was "Iridescent" by Gavin Mikhail.
> 
> Blame him.


End file.
